Irish Lady

by Jeanette Baker

  “God, Meggie,” he murmured, “I want you so. Tell me that you want me.”

  She tried to speak and found that her voice had an airy, breathless quality, so that it came out in the barest whisper. “I want you so much that my legs won’t work. It seems I’ve waited a lifetime to have you hold me again.”

  More than satisfied with her answer, he lifted the sweater over her head, unclasped her bra and buried his face in the soft valley of her breasts. Within moments the rest of their clothing was discarded and they were in the large bed, the covers around them, their seeking mouths and fingers finding the pleasure spots that fifteen years and separate lives could not erase.

  Meghann was on fire. The feel of his tight, hair-roughened body against hers left her trembling with a need she couldn’t control. Instinctively, she brushed aside the orderly, cautious role she’d cast for herself and moved and spoke and responded as if she’d been handed a whole new identity. For the first time she understood the enormity of what she’d given up and the sweet, stabbing pain of it filled her. Her only relief was to press closer, burying herself in the heat of his skin, his smell, the urgency of his hands caressing her body.

  The clouds disappeared and moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating Michael’s face and chest as he moved over her, stroking and kissing, murmuring words she never thought to hear from him again. Meghann reached up to run her fingers across his broad shoulders and chest, the column of his throat, the square Irish chin, and the sharp bones of his cheeks. His eyes, clear and colorless in the moonlight, framed by the sooty lashes she had envied as a girl, were filled with a need that left her trembling. Despite the pains she had taken on his haircut, the same unruly shock that would never be tamed fell across his forehead. She brushed it back. It fell again. Weaving her fingers through the thick straightness, she pulled his head to her breast. When he slid his tongue down the generous slope, Meghann closed her eyes, giving herself up to wave after wave of undiluted sensation.

  Surely it had never been like this, the searing heat, the curious throbbing, the delicious, building tension, a hard mouth gone soft with tenderness, and lean callused hands reverently caressing her body as if it were delicate crystal. How could she possibly have given up this priceless pleasure for something so insignificant as peace and sanity? Meghann knew as surely as she drew breath that after tonight there would be no peace for her in all the world.

  Michael was hard and hurting with the strength of his desire. He’d meant to hold out and prolong the end of their lovemaking for as long as possible. Something told him that after tonight she would leave, as much because of what was happening between them as her need to get on with his defense. If this was their last night, he wanted her to remember it.

  But the wait had already been too long. He had always been too immersed in his work to become seriously involved with a woman. The immorality of beginning a relationship he had no intention of culminating with a marriage proposal stopped him every time. Meghann was his first and last love, his only love. He wanted her, only her.

  The flame inside him heightened. Her legs parted and he slid into her. It was impossible to wait any longer. The moment she arched beneath him he was lost, swept away in the undertow of his own raging current. Moving with its flow, he reached for breath, straining to imprint the rush on his brain, to store, bring out, and savor when the nights were long again, this exquisite, mind-absorbing sensation. Time swelled, extending the peak, encapsuling the weightless floating descent until the last surge had settled into a relaxation so absorbing it bordered on unconsciousness. Too exhausted for speech, Michael folded her into his arms, pressed her face into his shoulder and slept.

  Meghann stared at the ceiling, wide awake and terrified of losing the power of what they had shared. What if she couldn’t save him? What if information was kept hidden in files to which she had no access, as in the Guildford case? How could she go on living if her defense wasn’t successful and Michael was sentenced to life without parole?

  In a blinding flash of clarity, she realized what had lain dormant within her for nearly a lifetime. She still loved Michael Devlin. She had always loved him, ever since that dreadful night on Cupar Street when her family was killed by British tanks and plastic bullets, the night Michael had reached out into the night and pulled her to safety.

  For years she had waited for him to notice that she was more than a child, and when he did, she was ready. Even at fifteen she had known how to widen her eyes, to lower her voice, to swing her hair across her shoulders, to lean against him as if she had no idea how the feel of her skin, the scent of her soap, and the curve of her virginal breast pressing against his shoulder affected him. When his voice hoarsened and the blue of his eyes became too intense for her to meet his gaze, when his conversation stopped abruptly and a dark flush rose in his cheeks, Meghann closed her eyes and leaned toward him.

  Finally, after what had seemed an interminable wait, she had known what it was to feel his mouth on hers, to feel his arms close around her and to open to the gentle demand of his tongue. Her time had come. Michael Devlin wasn’t a womanizer. When he claimed her, he had intended it to be forever. What she hadn’t known was how long forever could be.

  ***

  Dawn in Donegal was as close to heaven as anything worldly could possibly be. Varying hues of violet, peach, silver, and pink steadily encroached across the indigo sky. Clouds, wispy and veiled as Irish lace, muted the onslaught of a still wintry sun, and gulls circled above, dark against the morning light. The tide was low, and thousands of scurrying water creatures scrambled for survival in the sucking, sun-stained sand. No wonder stories of leprechauns flourished in western Ireland. It seemed to Meghann, as she stood staring out the kitchen window, that the entire coastline was caught in the rays of a rising sun.

  She had slept little, and when it was obvious she would sleep no more that night, she had pulled on jeans and a long sweater, slipped on wool socks and walked down to the kitchen to put on the teakettle. It was time to leave Donegal. If she waited any longer she would be unable to work on Michael’s defense. She was already far more emotionally involved with her client than an attorney should ever be. If she stayed even another day there was the possibility that her bias would cause her to miss important clues, to place emphasis on details that had little value when placed before a jury. Clear, cold purpose with the right measure of professional courtesy impressed juries, not emotional rhetoric.

  Meghann did not think it was possible to sit in a courtroom and listen to the Crown accuse Michael of unspeakable acts without a certain level of emotionalism. She only hoped it wouldn’t jeopardize his defense. It would be much better to leave now, when she could still think rationally, when time had dulled the edges of what they had found in Donegal. She would tell him today, after breakfast.

  Somehow he knew without speaking. He came down the stairs, blue-jeaned and bare-chested, with his hair falling over his forehead. His eyes, disturbingly blue, pierced through her defenses, and she couldn’t wait for breakfast. She told him immediately, truthfully, without further pretense. “I’m leaving, Michael. If I stay any longer I won’t be of any help to you.”

  He pinned her to the sink by placing both arms on either side of her. “All right, Meggie. But I want you t’ know this. If things work out for me, I’ll be in your debt for the rest of my life. Don’t forget that. Ask for anything and I’ll do it.” His face was very near, his eyes intent and serious. “I want you back in Belfast. Maybe when you realize what defending me really means, what you’ll face when it’s over, you’ll reconsider. If I’m found guilty, understand that I won’t hold you responsible. I never wanted you involved in the first place.”

  Not one word of love or even of wanting. Nothing personal. It was over, their stolen moments together. What had he said that smoke-filled, gasoline-fumed night on Cupar Street? Breathe. She breathed and her heart slowed. “I couldn’t have watched it from the sidelines,” she said. “This way I know that
if it doesn’t work out, it won’t be for lack of trying.”

  His hands moved up and down her shoulders. Something was bothering him. She waited, completely still under his touch. Finally he spoke. “Do y’ still love me, Meggie?”

  Again Meghann held her breath. A lie or the truth. The lie would save her pride. The truth would cleanse her soul. This might be the last time she ever saw him alone. “I’m surprised you had to ask,” she said softly. “Yes, Michael, I still love you. I love you so much that I want a part of you to take away, something of you that I can mold and fit into my life.”

  His hands tightened on her shoulders. His smile made her chest ache.

  “There was a time when I offered y’ much more than a part of me,” he said softly. “Why now and not then?”

  “I don’t know.” She knew he would deliberately ignore her message, just as she knew that she would insist he face it. “The point is, I don’t care.” She held his gaze, forcing him to understand her meaning.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m thirty-five years old. In all that time I’ve never done anything so foolish as to make love without protection, except for the times I’ve been with you. What I’m saying should be obvious. I love you. I’ll love you forever. I want to have children with you. I never stopped loving you.”

  He didn’t want to ask, nor did he care to hear her answer, but something inside him wouldn’t let her leave without his knowing. “You were married for five years.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you love him?”

  Her eyes ached in their sockets. She desperately needed to blink. “Not at first. But I learned to. He was a dear man.”

  His mouth thinned. “Why did y’ do it? Was it the money?”

  Meghann shook her head. “I needed his love and his power.”

  “I don’t believe that for a minute. You’re hardly the type who thrives on controlling others.”

  “You’re wrong. All my life I’ve felt powerless. First there was Cupar Street and I was alone. Then you joined the IRA and again I was alone. At university it was assumed that I wouldn’t do well because I was Irish, a woman, and alone. David offered me a job that would lead to a powerful position. Then he offered me his name, something no one could ever take away. His name gave me power. He promised to care for me, and I grew to care for him. Because he was older, I knew I would be alone again, but it wouldn’t be the same this time.” Her hands were trembling. “Money and position bring such power, Michael. You can’t imagine the difference between having and not having until you experience both. It’s like nothing I’ve ever known. I’m never afraid because I’m safe. Can you imagine being Catholic from the Falls, and never being afraid again?”

  His face was grim, his eyes cold. “No, I can’t. Children born in the Six Counties are delivered head first into fear. Some grow up and leave. Some can’t escape. The pain of leaving is worse than the price of staying. How can y’ do it, Meggie? How can y’ leave your country without looking back? Your education and talent could help us.”

  “Like Peter Finucane, the lawyer with brothers in the IRA? They murdered him in front of his wife and children on Malone Street.”

  “Peter was a friend of mine. His wife doesn’t blame us.”

  Meghann shook her head. “You don’t understand anything about me. Countries aren’t boundaries. Countries are people, Michael. Men, women, and children, who work and eat and sleep, people who live out the fabric of their lives just trying to survive. Boundaries mean nothing. We can go anywhere. Everyone will be the same.”

  “If you believe that, how can you love me?”

  He was so very dear, and his eyes were no longer cold. “How can I help it?” she whispered. “If ever I’ve felt passion and heartbreak and longing, it’s been with you.” She pressed her palm against her chest. “You will always hold a piece of my heart, Michael Devlin. It will go to the grave with you.”

  His thumb was on her chin, angling slowly, deliberately up her jawline and across her cheek until it touched the corner of her mouth. Meghann waited, life signs suspended, anticipating his next move. He lowered his head, and she felt the briefest touch of his lips on her throat, traveling a path marked by his fingers, down and across the shadowed hollow to the base of her throat. There he stopped, and she was aware of breathing, his or hers she couldn’t tell, and a warm hand under her sweater, unsnapping her jeans, circling the spot below her navel that weakened her knees. Tangling his other hand in her hair, he pulled gently, turning her face up to the light. Bending his head to her mouth, he kissed her, claiming her with his lips and tongue and teeth, until she pulled away, desperate for air that wasn’t his, air that would make her a separate person again.

  “Give it to me, Meggie,” he murmured hoarsely, his mouth still connected to hers. “Give me that piece of your heart to take with me.”

  At the sound of his voice, the last remnants of Meghann’s self-control melted away. The boneless feeling was with her again. She had no weight, no matter, that was not his. Molding herself against him, she shaped herself to fill his hollows, allowed his hands to move beneath her sweater and roam across her hips. She heard the whisper of zippers, felt him lift her into the saddle of his hips and when he filled her with a single swollen thrust, she wrapped her legs around him, matching his rhythm until the laughter bubbled and the tears flowed and all that would be lost came together in a vortex of heat and tension, exploding light and physical release.

  Two days later Meghann left Donegal and two days after that Michael boarded a bus to Sinn Fein headquarters in Belfast. He took nothing with him except for the clothing he wore and fifty pounds in his pocket. Meghann wasn’t the only one with questions. Someone had set him up and although he had a fairly good idea why, he wanted to know whose idea it was and why he was suddenly considered expendable.

  ***

  “You’re what?” Cecil Thorndike’s homely face twisted into a shocking grimace and his voice shook. “Have you gone mad, Meghann? This is outrageous. Our firm cannot possibly accept such a client. Father won’t allow it.”

  “What you are not remembering, Cecil, and what Theodore will, of course, is that I own half of this firm. I choose whom I represent without any interference from anyone, not even your father.”

  Cecil’s eyes bulged, and the pink cheeks that took ten years from his age were a startling purple. The woman before him looked the same, in her forest green suit with gold jewelry in her ears and an unusual pin of twisted gold attached to her lapel, all of which bespoke wealth, elegance, and superior taste. There was something different about her hair, something not terribly obvious even though he’d noticed right away. The style was the same loose twist caught up at the back of her head, but for some reason it lit up her face in a most unusual way.

  “What’s come over you, Meghann? In our entire acquaintance you’ve never spoken to me in such a manner. I can scarcely believe it’s you.”

  Deliberately she sat down and leaned her elbows on her desk. The tips of her fingers met to form a pyramid, and her eyes were fixed on Cecil’s face. “You really don’t know very much about me.”

  “Why, I’m sure I know everything I need to know,” he sputtered. “Really, Meghann, this is most unlike you. Why should I know anything of your personal history? I’m sure you wouldn’t want me prying into your affairs.”

  So like the British, Meghann fumed silently. How had such a conservative, retentive race managed to procreate? “Come, Cecil. Don’t be shy. Tell me what you know.” Meghann had never seen a man’s face color such a shocking red. For a brief moment she feared for his health and considered recanting the entire conversation. Except that it was too important.

  Cecil walked over to the mahogany cabinet, opened it and reached for the bottle of port. His hands shook as he poured a glass and downed it quickly. He turned back to Meghann. “I know that you were educated at Queen’s University and then at Oxford. You were on scholarship and proved to be an exceptional law st
udent. Upon interviewing you, David Sutton was utterly charmed and married you shortly after you were hired.”

  “Do you know that I’m Irish?”

  Cecil looked confused. “I imagine so. I’ve never really thought about it.”

  “Do you know that I’m Catholic?”

  “Good lord, Meghann. Your religion has nothing to do with anything, although come to think of it, you and David weren’t married in a Catholic church. I thought that was a rule or something.”

  Meghann tapped her two middle fingers together. “It is, Cecil. It most definitely is.”

  He wiped his brow with his handkerchief. “Where is all this leading? I don’t understand your point.”

  “You will, Cecil.” Her eyes were narrowed and very gold in the dim afternoon light. “I grew up in the slums of West Belfast. My grandfather was James Connelly, one of the first martyrs of the revolution, executed for proclaiming Ireland a republic. Most of the time my father, Paddy McCarthy, was unemployed, and when he wasn’t he was in Long Kesh prison camp, the charge, insurrection against the Crown. My mother took in washing, that is, until British troops broke through the barrier we resurrected against the rioting Protestants and shot at every man, woman, and child on the street with their plastics bullets, projectiles that can split a man’s head open upon impact. Three of my brothers and both of my parents were killed that day. I would have been another victim, but a boy saved me, kept me in the shadows, his hand over my mouth, whispering over and over, ‘Don’t let the bloody bastards kill you, too.’ His mother took me in and I lived there for years, like one of her own, until I went away to school. Would you like to know the boy’s name, Cecil?”